


The One With Narnia

by Jenwryn



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Established Relationship, F/M, Golden Age (Narnia), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-09
Updated: 2011-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where the Doctor takes them to Narnia for their anniversary. As you would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With Narnia

**Author's Note:**

> I still haven't watched all of Season 6 of Doctor Who. *insert appropriate expression here*

“You brought us,” Amy says, her face brilliant with surprise and the sharp pink of cold, “to _Narnia_?”

She grabs hold of Rory's elbow, as though to draw his attention to the accuracy of her statement; as though it might somehow have slipped his notice. Rory laughs at her pleasure, delighted; laughs at the self-satisfied little twirl that the Doctor gives in response to it. They have that in common, Rory thinks: what her happiness does to them.

“Anniversaries,” the Doctor is saying, “it's not as though they happen every day.” He hesitates. Scrunches up his face. “Well,” he continues, “they happen every _year_ , I suppose. Nature of the beast, really. Come to think of it, are you sure you want to continue calculating everything with the Earth calendar of your own era? That is to say—”

Rory tugs Amy closer, tucking her in against his side. Her hair is already cold to the touch, cold where it brushes the gap left between his glove and his jacket. She's smiling at him – smiling at the entire world around them, white like a wedding cake, dark trees standing tall and proud and not bowing beneath the weight of white they shoulder – and he could stay warm from that alone, today. He touches a kiss to her forehead, and lets her urge him forwards, listening to her talk.

Rory knows as much about Narnia as she does: has read the same books, has seen the same films, has sat on her sofa and listened to her moon in an entirely age-inappropriate way about how pretty the kid actor who'd played Edmund was (Rory had understood). What he has never done is imagine it as _real_. That's where Amy thinks differently than he does, Rory supposes. That's where her brain is wired to expect, to request, to consider the surreal to be just an inch from her grasp, simply because she wants it to be. There are still nights when Rory wakes up and wonders whether the Doctor only exists because she had demanded it. He listens as she talks about Dryads, as she interrogates the Doctor on whether they're just like in the books, on whether they'll be hibernating. Rory looks up at the clouds, roiling across the sky, looks up at the sun that slants through them, setting the snow to gleaming, and wonders whether this is the real reason that they're here, whether this is the real reason why their life is what it is: Amy can believe.

Amy has her hands on a tree trunk, snow-damp colouring her woolly mittens. Rory squeezes her, then turns; listens to the Doctor, who has become stranded in the middle of his explanations and who now, instead, has fallen to mumbling something that could be voodoo, for all Rory would know – and who actually _would_ know, even after all this time, even after all this time together and everything between them. Rory nudges Amy with a shoulder, nods his face in the Doctor's direction. Amy hugs the tree, arms wrapping around it, because this is Amy, and Amy is insane. The tree is so broad that she cannot reach all the way around. She turns her face to Rory as she hugs it, and Rory kisses her properly. He can feel the warmth of her neck beneath her hair. TARDIS warmth, lingering. He can feel the rough of the tree graze against his gloves. He'd never really thought to share her with a tree, but it's Amy, isn't it. She nips at his lip, then leans her face back to the tree, presses her pink cheek against its bark.

Rory grins, and pushes away from the tree. The fallen snow is dazzling, blanketing over mountains that rise up, up before them, up to dwarf them, up to dwarf the TARDIS, to dwarf the three small shapes of themselves, dark against the pale. Rory reaches out a hand and seizes hold of the Doctor's coat – minor miracle that the idiot had had the sense to put one on over his tweed – and lets his fingers curve against the steady warmth beneath. “Oi,” Rory says. “You. Over here.”

The Doctor, their Doctor, unfurls a grin that could do more than launch a thousands ships, could do more than make a planet riot, could do more than persuade Rory to place everything he loves in the hands that it belongs to. The Doctor jiggles beneath Rory's grasp, doesn't let himself be pulled, so much as propels himself towards Rory in response, arms flung open, and then they're in the snow; Amy laughing at them from where she's communing with the tree, Rory's words tangling with Rory's yelp as the Doctor's familiar weight lands against him. A knee between his knees, two arms wrapped around him and oh, how long it had taken, but here he is now, now. Rory doesn't mind the snow, doesn't mind it at all when he knows there's a warm bath and even warmer towels waiting for them back home, back home where the walls will be humming their approval. Rory doesn't mind at all, when he's rugged up, and there's already a white dusting of snow on the Doctor's eyebrows, because he's _the Doctor_ , and he can't go anywhere without getting something all over him.

“Hello!” announces the Doctor, grin and warmth and blazing full-attention.

Rory could melt beneath that attention. Rory is glad to have it mostly shared between two, to have the intensity of it diluted some; Rory thinks you could burn beneath it, burn up like old universes and swelling hearts. “You,” Rory says, revelling in it, soul singing beneath it, “are _such_ a dork. You're, I don't even know, you're the world's biggest dork. The universe's, even.”

The Doctor has his hands tangled in Rory's scarf, long fingers cold, making Rory shiver, making Rory want to crawl beneath his clothes and live there always.

“A pan-galactic dork,” the Doctor suggests, eyes lighting up like this is the best things he's heard all day.

Rory laughs, agrees; leans up and steals a kiss. He likes the way the Doctor mumbles into even that, talking and lovesharing not exclusive in the Doctor's reckoning. Rory likes the warmth of him, the neverending glow, the joy that lines the wells of grief; the way he clings so tightly. Rory gets a hand free of its glove, slips it between the buttons of the Doctor's coat, feels his hearts beating bright between them.

“How is this even real?” Rory asks. “No, wait, don't tell me – you chatted up C.S. Lewis in a pub one night?”

“More importantly,” Amy says, and she must have had her fill of cuddling trees because now she's standing beside them, amusement in her eyes. “When did you bring us to? I mean, it's _cold_ , Doctor. It's really bloody cold. You didn't go and bring us to the long, long winter, did you?”

“Amelia Pond, would I do that?” asks the Doctor, like he still has any right to sound offended at anything navigation-related. He's grinning, daft crooked grin, as he wriggles off of Rory and gets to his feet. Rory takes the hand the Doctor offers him, damp against bare fingers, and stands. It's cold, without the Doctor's weight against him. He grows conscious of the chill that's crept into him from the frozen ground.

Amy rolls her eyes. Brushes snow from Rory's jacket.

“It's a perfectly regular winter,” the Doctor is saying. “Entirely dull. Quite possibly boring. I swear I've never taken you to a less eventful place.”

Rory doesn't believe a word of it. He leans in to kiss his wife, to slip a hand into the Doctor's coat pocket.

Amy kisses him back a while, then says, “Exploring now. Making out later.”

“I'm not very good at running in snow,” Rory warns.

The forest glimmers around them, slow huff of snow falling from branches; bright flash of a fox pausing, only for second, to peer at them, before darting out of sight. Rory's pretty sure he can hear music, distant but rich, perhaps on the breeze, perhaps in the same part of his head that can hear the TARDIS sing, tucked up with hearts and wonder and this faith, this strange faith he's stumbled into.

“The Pevensies are on the throne, though?” Amy is asking, “You didn't go and miss them completely, did you?” and Rory is the one who smiles, and leads them forwards.


End file.
